He lay there in his bed, staring up at the ceiling as he did every night, waiting for the sun to rise so that he could justify getting out of bed. His most recent project, the development of thirty-five acres on the furthest most north point of the city, adjacent to the Air Force Academy boundary, had fallen behind schedule. With the early onset of a fierce winter and the strength of the economy, labor had been thin at best. Finding an experienced builder who was willing to work through the snow was nearly impossible, let alone at anything resembling an affordable rate. The upper echelon development, consisting of one hundred houses on third acre lots, was only half sold. Thirty-two of the houses were inhabited, the rest in various stages of completion. A handful of Realtors were actively trying to push the sales, but without the park being finished, and the lake sitting dry beneath a few feet of snow, it was a challenging task indeed.
Scott sighed loudly, closing his eyes and raising his arms above him. A wide yawn ripped across his lips. Sitting up, he dangled his legs over the side of the bed, rolling his head on his shoulders, the vertebrae popping dully. He sniffed and climbed from the bed, shuffling into the bathroom where he leaned against the side of the marble sink and peed for what felt like five minutes. Yawning once more, he scuffed across the tile floor and back into the bedroom, stopping at the closet only long enough to grab the matching top to his pajama bottoms. Slipping it over his bare chest, he made his way down the hall, sliding down the long staircase into the foyer. Sunlight spilled through the skylights staggered throughout the twenty-two foot ceiling, reflecting off of the highly buffed Spanish tile in the entryway.
Rubbing his scruffy jaw, he grabbed the handle to the front door, glancing through the etched glass arches in the middle. Throwing wide the door, the bitter wind raced in to greet him. Shivering, he stepped out onto the porch, standing on the thick “Welcome” mat that was only half-covered by snow.
Large flakes fell from a partially cloud-filled sky, slowly swirling as they fell straight down, before being ripped away by the gusting wind. Bending over, he grabbed the paper and tucked it beneath his arm, staring across the lawn into the development.
His had been one of the first houses they had built out there. It had been time for a change, and having the developer living in the neighborhood was always a great selling feature, especially when trying to sell houses in the six to eight hundred thousand dollar range.
His house was towards the back of the area, butting up against the green belt of the Air Force property. He could see the outline of three other houses against the darkened sky, their modern design a complete contrast to the pristine environment around them. Evergreen-covered hills rolled all around them, blocking the views of the other houses as well as the sound of the construction as they frantically worked to finish all of the other houses by their deadline.
The smell of sap from the needles of the pines all around him filled the air, carried upon the crisp winter wind. And for one moment, as the waning moon peered from behind a cluster of clouds, he felt completely at ease. But only for that moment.
Turning, he walked back into the house, closing the front door behind him. The wave of heat from the furnace was a welcome change against his thinly-covered flesh as he crossed the foyer and through the living room into the kitchen. Climbing onto one of the stools at the breakfast nook, he spread the paper out on the table.
Tossing aside the first three sections, he went straight to the Real Estate section. Every weekend, both Saturday and Sunday, it was the only section that he ever made it to. His development was featured prominently on the front page, with the logos of every Realtor in the area lined beneath the drawing of the lots. A little “Sold” sign was in the center of every lot that had already been brokered, and he could tell from the picture, even though he already knew, that there were still at least fifteen more that needed to be sold, or at least under contract, within the next week. Or, more accurately within the next six days. The bank expected the return on their investment by the 20th. They really only needed to close on four of the houses to be able to pay the bank, but when it came to doing business, especially business with six or seven zeroes behind it, it was important to prove yourself in every transaction. He had to have the development completely sold if for no other reason than he said he would. In this business, without your word, you were dead in the water.
The Realtors had set up a “Community Night.” It was an outdoor barbecue set to be some sort of meet your neighbor/ potential neighbor night. It was a grand marketing scheme: have the open houses while the entire neighborhood is in one place enjoying the festivities and the company of their neighbors. They were sure to seal the deal on at least six of them during that three-hour timeframe.
There were large posters on every lamppost in the neighborhood advertising it:
“Family Fun Night!
Bring the Kids!
Hamburgers and Hot Dogs!
Meet Your Neighbors!
Saturday the 20th at 3 p.m.
In the Falcon Ridge Commons!”
He had agreed to get the park as close to completion as possible for the event, erecting a large gazebo right by the street, and filling the manmade pond. They planned to cook beneath the gazebo, and freeze the water for ice-skating. They hoped that it would be something out of an old painting: neighbors milling around together as they ate from paper plates, their children skating on the surface of the frozen pond.
They planned to block off the street, setting up enormous circus-type tents in the middle of the road if the weather was still bad, and this being Colorado in November, there was really no way of knowing what the weather was going to be like until the time finally came. Their goal was to have lines of picnic tables in the street, but tents would suffice if the weather worked against them.
The whole thing seemed a little silly to Scott, but he knew how to get the houses built. He left the selling to those who were qualified to do so, and he would give them one thing, annoyingly bubbly and pleasant as they were, they did know what it took to sell houses. He just hoped they had what it took to clear out the remaining lots in the next week. There was something in his gut, however, telling him that Saturday was going to be a big day indeed, and he had learned to trust his gut.
Laying down the paper, he stared out the window above the little breakfast nook, past the snow-covered lawn at the line of trees beyond. A large shadow appeared right in front of the wall of pines and spruces, moving slowly out from the mass of needles onto the edge of his property. Its black outline barely stood out against the trees in the dim moonlight, but he could definitely tell that there was something there. It was the size of a horse, creeping along the edge of the lawn.
Leaning to his right, Scott stretched his arm as far as he could, flicking the patio light with the tip of his middle finger. Settling back into the stool, he peered back out the window. The two spotlights mounted to either side of the patio door, just to the left of where he was sitting, shined in enormous arcs out into the night, their thick, yellow rays creating two intersecting balls of light in the center of the yard. He caught a flash of gold, two small glowing orbs, reflecting from the far edge of the yard.
The outline of an enormous rack of antlers was framed against the green backdrop, an unusually large equine-type body silhouetted against the trees. It was the size of a horse, but that was where the similarities ended. Its body fur was a deep gray in the thin light, but there was a large lighter patch on the animal’s rear end. He was accustomed to seeing deer in this neighborhood, especially here lately with all of the construction in the neighborhood, but he had never seen one as large as this. And never one this brazen. The deer around there were skittish as a rule, dashing madly into the undergrowth at the first sign of being seen, but this one… it just stood there watching him.
Rising from the table, Scott rubbed the stubble on his chin, allowing a long yawn to creep from his gaping mouth. He shuffled across the tiled floor to the counter next to the stove, where the
coffee maker sat, its empty pot stained in rings from months of use and abuse. Filling the pot with water, he poured it into the hole in the top of the unit and set it back on the small circular heating pad beneath the spout. Opening the cupboard, he pulled out a can of Folger’s, emptying three scoops into the same filter he had used the day before. He closed the lid and pressed the red button. The machine made a sputtering sound before finally starting to assume normal operations.
Turning, he rolled his neck on his shoulders and walked back over to the eating bar, deciding that today he was going to read the sports section. It was rare that he took the effort to read more than the real estate section, let alone on a Sunday, but today he was going to make a conscious effort just to peek. He missed sitting and relaxing while watching the game, a cold beer in his hand, flipping back and forth to dodge commercials. Maybe it was time that he started making more time for himself. It was the middle of the football season and he had maybe watched a combined total of a half a game since the September start, and the hockey season was just over a month in, and he hadn't even caught a single game.
Nodding to himself, he made a resolution. He was going to find a way to free up some more time, to spend just a little time each week doing something that he wanted to do. Just a little break in the action where he could lose himself in non-work related competition. Well, once he got through this next week anyway.
Something caught his eye.
There was something lying on top of his newspaper, something that hadn’t been there before he had gotten up to start brewing the coffee. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it appeared to be covered with mud.
His heart began to race in his chest, each breath coming shorter and far more shallowly. Focusing intently on the object, his trembling fingers formed fists at his sides.
The paper around the object was darkening, the dampness of the thing soaking into the thin newsprint. It had a black base color, the mud crusted to the surface of it. There was a small button or knob in the middle of the top portion.
Scott glanced all around the room, his eyes searching from one corner of the room to the next. He peered out into the brightly-illuminated yard, but there was nothing out there, nothing but the small holes the deer left in the snow as it had passed through the yard on its way through the hills.
Glancing to his left, along the floorboards, he could see that the metal bar that locked the sliding glass door was still firmly in place, the locking key that kept the bar from budging engaged. There were no wet tracks on the carpet, no snowy outlines of shoes on the floor. The tile was as dry as it had been when he had walked across it only thirty seconds prior.
So how had whatever that was gotten onto his eating bar?
With a sudden revelation, he stared straight up at the ceiling, following it to where it met the wall; bowing outward as it arched away from the house. The glass was all in place, no cracks or openings. It was sealed perfectly, as it had been when he moved in. Taking one step forward, he craned his head around the corner of the kitchen, staring straight down the hallway and into the foyer. There were no footprints on the Spanish tile, and he could tell from the size of the massive deadbolt that it was still engaged.
His blood coursed increasingly hotter through his veins as he fought the urge to inspect the object on the table. There was no way that it could have found its way onto his table as his house was sealed like a tomb, with a state of the art security system mounted on every surface that remotely resembled an opening. If a door or window had opened, there would already be police at the house. But he could see from the panel on the wall that the two green lights were on, meaning that the system was operational and hadn’t been triggered.
Closing his eyes, he tried to steady his nerves. His hands clenched at his sides, opening and closing rhythmically in time with his rapid panting.
Once again opening his eyes, he leaned over the table and inspected the object.
It was an oblong shape, larger at one end than it was at the other. Reaching out carefully, he picked it up between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up above the paper. Small chunks of mud sloshed off of the surface, landing in small splatters on the newspaper. Turning it over and over, he inspected it closely. It appeared to be a hat.
Glancing around the room one last time, he walked it over to the sink and turned on the water. Holding it beneath the rapidly warming stream, he scrubbed at the mud with his left hand, chunks falling into little brown piles on the Formica. Small lines of sand ran from the clusters towards the drain, separating into individual grains as they were drawn away from each other.
It was black and felt as though it was made of canvas. There was a black plastic band along the back with little pegs for adjusting the size. Turning it over, he stared at the front of the hat. The brim was a faded rust color, the thread in the seams peeling back in strands. And right on the front of the hat…
“My God…” he whispered, the hat falling from his hand beneath the running water.
Though it had been more than a decade since he had last seen it, he recognized it right away. After all, he had seen it every day of his life practically, prior to then anyway. There was an abstract bird, the Atlanta Falcons logo, the black bird framed by thin white lines, paralleled by red ones.
Snatching the hat out of the sink, he turned it over in his hands, looking inside the brim. There was a small, fraying tag peering out of one of the seams. He tugged on it, yanking it free of its stitching.
“MP,” he read aloud, the tag falling from his suddenly weak grip onto the floor.
He fell to his knees on the floor, his arms hanging limply at his sides, palms facing the ceiling. His chin rested on his chest, jaw hanging slack. All vital signs seemed to slow at once, the veins in his temples thudding deliberately, echoing in the empty room. Unblinking, he stared down at the tag on the floor, unable to steer his gaze from the small, yellow-stained piece of fabric, its tattered edges jostling beneath the heat that blew down from the vent in the ceiling.
Without even raising his head, Scott half-slid, half-crawled to the edge of the counter, grabbing the cord to the phone and yanking the entire cordless unit off of the counter. The base unit clattered to the ground, the pager button popping off and sliding across the floor beneath the refrigerator. Picking up the receiver, Scott dialed three buttons, the tone resonating within his skull. Pressing the phone to the side of his head, he backed himself along the floor into the corner of the room, flanked by lines of cabinets.
“911,” the voice on the other end of the line answered.
“There’s someone in my house,” Scott whispered, his eyes nervously darting from one side of the room to the other.
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THE BLOODSPAWN
Michael McBride
© 2004 Michael McBride. All rights reserved.
PART FIVE
Chapters 5 & 6
V
Sunday, November 13th
5:30 am
Tim Williams lifted his right foot onto the lid of the toilet, pulling the laces tight on his cross-trainers, and tying them into a knot. Switching feet, he laced up the left shoe. Pulling the cuffs of his sweat pants down to the tongues of his shoes, he paused, placing his fingertips on the linoleum floor and stretched his hamstrings. He bounced once and then stood straight up, leaning backward and placing his hands at the base of his back. Slowly, he rolled his head and shoulders back. With a sigh, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.
His light brown hair had thinned slightly at the temples, but was still fairly thick throughout. There was certainly visible wear around his light brown eyes, and thin smile lines to either side of his thin, slightly chapped lips. His pale complexion stood out in rugged contrast to the dark blue, zippered sweat suit top.
Lifti
ng up the bottom edge of the jacket, he crunched his stomach muscles and stood sideways in front of the mirror, patting the thin layer of skin atop his almost-rippled stomach. With a sly grin, he tugged the top back down and grabbed the pair of gloves off of the counter next to the sink.
Slipping them on, he walked out of the bathroom into the darkened bedroom. He could barely discern the dark outline of his wife slumbering in the bed, her long, dark hair spread across the white flowered pillowcase. Stopping at the side of the bed, beside the lump in the covers, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. She made a muffled grumbling sound and rolled over onto her side, bringing her knees up to her chest. The sound of her light wheezing filled the air as Tim crept out of the bedroom and into the hallway.
Passing his study, the light from the power strip on the floor glowed red. The curtains ruffled lightly as the heater gusted straight up from the floorboards.
The next room on his left was completely empty, save for the stacks of boxes right in the middle of the floor. At some point, that was going to be the baby’s room, but until they were actually able to conceive, they weren’t going to set it up as such. And setting it up for anything other than a baby’s room would be an admission of failure. So, that room was going to sit with a small stack of boxes in the center until they were able to make something happen.
They had only moved into this house about six months ago, after having decided that they were ready to start a family. Tim and Vanessa had been married for close to five years now, having met in college, and married shortly following graduation. The last five years had been devoted entirely to starting their careers. Vanessa had landed a job as an accountant with one of the larger software designers in the area right out of school, and enjoyed the nine to five lifestyle. Tim, on the other hand, found himself in advertising, working for the Gazette. His days began by seven, and he found himself lucky to be home before eight at night. Granted, he had never worked a weekend day, but the weekdays were about enough to kill him; going from one account to the next to the next, setting up appointments, passing out rate cards, wining and dining the big bucks. The way he saw it, they should change his title to “brown noser.” And, unless he started to see more money coming his way, he was going to have to find another job.
The Bloodspawn Page 12